Angels
by auriellis
Summary: Set just after the events of Batman Begins, Jonathan Crane meets an unusual woman who is emotionally disconnected from the world. CranexOC. Rated M for a reason.
1. Prologue: Mercy

Prologue: Mercy

Angels do exist. No wings, no halos, no white robes. They are not the messengers of God. Instead, they act more as muses, guiding the hands of those who are lost towards a greater destiny. They can be as cold as the darkest night in the arctic. Or they can blaze with the intense heat of a fire. Angels feel nothing because they are forbidden to understand human emotion. Yet, their bodies are as susceptible to the physical as any mortal. An angel's gaze can tear a man apart, bring him to his knees, begging for forgiveness. Their touch can ignite passion in the most frigid creature. Empty, void, they do not seek out companionship. They wait. They watch. They dream of a life that can never be.

The clacking of the horse hooves against the pavement drew the angel's attention as she watched the night ignite with fear. The unnatural mists of the Narrows swirled upwards consuming every person it touched, an eruption of nightmares walking the streets. The angel was unmoved by this, her eyes searching the night for the unusual beast that roamed the alleys. She could barely see through the mists, high as she was, but at long last, she found her quarry. The man's body lay upon the back of the beast, unconscious, a mask of burlap covering his face, sparks still flickering in the night. The angel became curious.

Despite the dangers that threatened in the outside world, she fled from her room to satiate her inquisitive mind. The beast stopped at the door to her home, almost as if she called it to her. A gentle touch, a pat on the head and the horse was calmed. Carefully, she pulled the man from the saddle. But unaccustomed to such acts, the dead weight of his body pushed them both to the ground. For a moment, she lay there, out of breath from the unintended assault. When she was able to gather her might, she pushed his form off hers.

Sitting up, she placed his head in her lap, now hearing the low, distorted moaning that crept from his lips. She lifted the mask off his head, pulling out sparking wires from the material. For a moment, his eyes opened. If she could feel the wonder of beauty, the angel would have forever been taken in by the rich blue of his eyes before they closed again. But she could not feel.

The man had felt the hands that gripped him, the pain searing through his face. He felt the warmth against the cold. He felt the fall, the soft landing but was unable to move, his body paralyzed by the electricity that ran through his veins. He felt the hands moving him again, a moan escaped his lips. Light blossomed against his closed eyelids as his mask was taken away. The pain dissolved. For a moment, his eyes opened. A halo of street light surrounded the woman that held him, a beauty unsurpassed by any memory in his mind.

"Angels do exist," he murmured as the world faded to black.

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><p><strong>AN: After several requests, I've yielded and started writing a CranexOC fic. I'll be adding chapters to this fic as time allows. I hope you enjoy! Questions, comments, feedback? Please review. **


	2. Question

Chapter One : Question

Waking up in an unfamiliar location could be an unfortunate treat for those who had no self control, a mystery to be solved. Jonathan Crane, however, found it perturbing, the strange feel of ancient knitted blankets against his skin, his sweat soaked into the terribly uncomfortable couch that he lay upon. The air shifting, a lingering scent of cigarette smoke floating into his nose. Disgusting, unproductive habit. The smell of coffee, strawberries, and old books also subtly tainted his senses, a welcome reminder that he was no longer housed under the roof of Arkham.

The temperature of the room was hot, almost unbearable, sticky as the most humid summer day. He found his hands clawing to remove the excess weight of the blankets, feeling the urgent need to breathe oxygen deep into his lungs in such a ghastly environment. For a moment, he heard the cautioning words of his late grandmother, "You're going to hell, boy," and wondered if she may have been right. If so, he had indeed found the devil's playhouse, a messy room of stacked books, tossed aside clothing, and empty food containers. It begged for a cleaning but he worried that dead animals might be found under the piles of wreckage.

As he stood, feeling the biological imperative to relieve himself, Jonathan noted the pair of U.S. Navy sweatpants and t-shirt, not his own, upon his frame. Bare-footed, he carefully made his way through the nightmare living room, following the logical path in the cramped apartment to the bathroom. Smoke billowed out of the door of one room, catching the light as it shined through the gap between the door and its frame. The muffled voice of a female could be heard inside. Ignoring his bladder, he pressed closer to the door to listen in on the woman.

"-understand that. But I live in the Narrows and it's under quarantine. I cannot leave." A pause, presumably as the person on the other end spoke. "The bridge is closed so unless you plan on sending a helicopter to come pick me up, I will have to work from home today. I'm sorry." Another pause. "I have most of the materials on my laptop and whatever else I may need, I'll VPN in and contact Lakshmi."

Sensing the end of the call, Jonathan moved away from the door and into what he confirmed was the bathroom. It wasn't as disastrous as the living room but it needed a good scrubbing. The white-tiled floor showing signs of dirt gathering between the cracks. The toilet hosted a brown ring around the water, soapy film on the sink. Various beauty products and makeup on the counter. The shower curtain, rather just a lining, was closed but he could see the mildew staining the inside of the clear plastic. After tending to his needs, he splashed some water on his face before replacing his glasses and examining the abrasions on his face. Three prongs of burn damage, standing out amongst the freckles. They would heal without scarring. While he was not a vain man, he did take pride in well-groomed appearance. It not only conveyed professionalism but lowered the defenses of those he desired to intimidate.

Opening the bathroom door, he heard the female voice call out from behind the smokey door, "Coffee's in the kitchen if you want some."

Standing in front of the bathroom, he ran through the events of the evening before. The breakout at Arkham by Ra's al Ghul's men. Riding through the streets, delighting in the terror swirling around him. Running across the annoying bitch ADA who should have been dead from his prior dosing of her. She was seemingly unaffected by the mists of his trade as he closed in on her. Electricity running through him from her taser, the clomping of the horses hooves. And the warmth against his body before his consciousness faded away. For a moment, he considered that the woman behind the door might be Rachel Dawes, but shook away the thought. Some ideas were too absurd to consider.

Answers were needed, so he strode forward, pushing open the door that concealed the mysterious woman from his eyes. As suspected, it was a bedroom and while not as unclean as the other two rooms he had seen, it still begged for attention. The room was small, enough for a large bed, dresser, and nightstand. Discarded clothing lined the floor under two windows on the opposite wall. The air was considerably cooler in this room, one window open to alleviate the heat from the radiator. And sitting on the bed, back turned to him, was the woman, crushing a cigarette into a skull-shaped ashtray on the nightstand. She twisted towards him as the floor squeaked under his foot, announcing his intrusion. Her face betrayed no surprise at his appearance in her personal space.

The first thing that struck him about her was how skinny she was. Not quite to a danger level, but her features were hollowed out, sunken in. The black tank top she wore was a couple sizes too large for her, hanging off her frame. He would have assumed anorexia, if not for the empty food cartons around her living room. Perhaps bulimia, then. On her back, parts of a large tattoo peeked out at her shoulder blades, coming to parallel points on each side. The woman stood, the sheets of the bedding falling to the side, revealing that her lower half was only covered by a pair of matching black underwear. She was short, only a couple of inches taller than the five foot mark. Framing her pixy-like facial features was a tangled mess of light brown hair, falling to the middle of her back. She could easily be mistaken for a child with her appearance. She was cute, no other word could describe her attributes. Small nose, big brown eyes, tiny but pronounced freckles lining her forehead and cheeks. A woman like her did not look the sort to be hosting dangerous men like him inside her apartment.

The woman bent over, seemingly unconcerned by her state of dress and the view she was providing him, pulling a pair of yoga pants from the pile under the window. Her tank top shifted, revealing more of the tattoo on her back, although the design wasn't clear from his vantage point. Sliding the pants on, again too large for her skinny frame, she walked over to him, extending a hand.

"Evangeline Natal."

A small smiled played across her lips as she waited for his response. Her voice was high pitched and airy, only emphasizing how innocent and childlike she appeared to be. The flogger that sat on her dresser said otherwise. Jonathan ignored her hand, not even giving her so much as a nod. She didn't seemed concerned with his lack of response, dropping her hand and turning to take up a brush, running it through her long hair while staring at herself in the mirror attached to the dresser.

"Are you feeling alright?" Evangeline asked.

"Yes," he responded, after another moment of studying her. "Why am I here?"

"You were injured." Her words were curt, with a bit of sharpness to her consonants.

"And you brought me here."

"Yes." She pulled her hair back behind her, securing it with a fastener, low on the nape of her neck.

"Why?"

"You needed help."

Her answer struck him as rather naïve. He leaned against her door. "Why bring a stranger into your home? I could be dangerous."

A barked laugh from her. "You _are_ dangerous. You're Jonathan Crane. I recognize you from the news. And for all you know, _I _could be dangerous as well."

Again, he evaluated her but there was nothing to indicate she could be a threat. Yet, she knew exactly who he was. Interesting. There was no sign of any caution at his presence inside her bedroom, which was troubling. "And yet, you still brought me into your home. You are either very stupid or very naïve."

"Neither," Evangeline said, sitting back down on her bed. Her hands reached under her pillow to pull out a piece of burlap. Jonathan instantly recognized it as his mask. "The breather and voice distorter seem to be intact but there were several burn marks from the taser. I cut them out and stitched up the holes." She tossed it to him. "I burned the Arkham patient uniform but the remainder of your clothing is downstairs in the dryer. I would have brought them up but you woke before I could get them."

Grasping his mask, he examined the damaged areas that she mentioned, noting the changes where care was taken to not change the integrity of its surface. Curious. Not only had she taken a known criminal into her home and given him aid, but she also repaired the item that he most treasured. "Most unusual," he said aloud. And he had to ask, "Are you some kind of fan of my work?"

"Dear lord, no," she said, as if offended by the question. "What you have done is immoral and to be frank, rather awful. People have died because of your actions."

He approached her, placing himself in her direct line of vision,and looked down at her gaunt features. "You could die." His move was intended to intimidate but she didn't flinch. Only met his eyes with a blank look. He began to wonder if she was mentally deficient.

"Would you really kill the person who saved you from arrest and incarceration?" Her big brown eyes blinked at him. "The police would have, no doubt, located you by now had it not been for my intervention."

Even more curious was despite his looming presence and reputation, she held no signs of fear. Her breathing was even, and Jonathan was certain, if he took her wrist, that her pulse would be normal. No dilation of the pupils. Yes, definitely a mental deficiency but not one that affected her intelligence. It didn't take much evaluation to understand that she had been out in the mists. A flash of a human face before consciousness fled him. No gas mask, either. The masses had run amuck in their panic, screaming, but this woman, like the ADA, had some form of immunity to his gas. Thinking on it, Jonathan believed that Ms. Dawes had been given a suppressant, likely from the Batman, to resist the effects of his gas but the odds that Evangeline also knew the vigilante were slim. And his many tests of the poison showed ninety percent saturation of his subjects, the rest at seventy percent with a very small number at the bottom of the charts. But not one subject had been fully immune.

"Do you expect me to show gratitude?" he asked. He wasn't quite sure what she was after.

"No," she replied. "You believe yourself better than me. I can see that in your stance and the way you question me. And I have found that men who feel superior rarely thank those they deem to be lesser."

He noted that the pace of her words was even, lacking the usual human rhythm of language. Evangeline had no accent but he considered that she might be the daughter of a foreigner, based on this. And although her words would normally incite most men to anger, he focused on the logic behind them, her calm reasoning. It was improbable that she had a psychological condition, as he had made sure to test every condition known to Arkham before the product had gone into mass production. But even he could not account for all genetic variations of those in the city and no drug, no matter how potent or pervasive, had shown one hundred percent viability. Perhaps he should have consulted with a pharmacogenomicist.

Placing her hands behind her on the bed, she leaned back, crossing her legs. "Are we done with this conversation? I have work to do." The gesture was flippant, dismissive even.

Jonathan had a desire to know, to understand, why she was showing no signs of fear. Was she emotionally numbed? Psychological conditions were off the table, even the toughest antisocial, psychopathy and depersonalization disorder patients had responded to his treatments. Perhaps a defect in the brain or in the connections between the brain stem and the nervous system. There were several medical conditions that presented with fearlessness, including temporal lobe epilepsy, brain tumors, and lesions. It could also be a rare case of emotional dysplasia. Although each of those conditions had variants that were too numerous to predict.

"You are not afraid." Jonathan pierced her personal bubble, pressing his knees up against her crossed legs. An intentional move in an attempt to invoke a reaction.

In response, Evangeline uncrossed her legs and stood, her head barely higher than his shoulder. Her body lined up against his, and despite the discomfort he felt with their intimate positioning, he would not back away. Her eyes met his and all pretenses dropped. With no expression, her entire body relaxed before him as if someone had cut her strings and when he looked into her eyes, he saw a void looking back. They were dead, cold, and it chilled him to the bone. Jonathan had seen the look before when controlling the most methodical of killers, men who felt no remorse or guilt while torturing the innocent, but this woman was not insane. Even the worst of his depersonalization disorder patients could not rock him as she did in that moment. When he looked into her eyes, there was nothing looking back.

"I do not fear." With the pretense gone, the initial high lilt of her voice disappeared, the tonal quality lowering into a monotone. "And you find that interesting, do you not?"

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is this why you assisted me? To see my reaction to your condition?"

"I assure you that your presence here is merely a coincidence. I would have helped anyone who needed it."

"Aren't you the saint." For someone with the sort of apathy she displayed, he found her attitude unusual. Indicating some form of code or rules instilled within that she followed.

"I was raised properly," she said. "To help those who are in need of aid."

Close as she was, he could smell the stink of cigarette smoke in her hair, along with the subtle scent of coconut. "How quaint."

"But, in this case, fortune favors me as the news has indicated that you are an expert in psychopharmacology." She raised an eyebrow, looking for confirmation. "As well as having a fascination with fear in the human mind. Your gases, last night, failed to produce any effect in me."

His lips raised slightly. "Noted."

"Perhaps if you upped the dosage into something more concentrated, it could work," she suggested.

Unexpected. "You're asking me to experiment on you?"

She didn't need to answer. Her prior words had already said volumes. This woman was a willing volunteer. He had been mostly correct in his previous assumption of her character, but he changed his assessment slightly. She was both stupid and naïve. He could feel the annoyance growing inside of him. The case studies of the effects of fame were proven right. His work had become public and now, everyone wanted a piece. And although the prospect appealed to him of testing her until she begged him to stop, Jonathan was not some social worker aiding every charity case that came along. She was, no doubt, the first in a line of willing saps hoping to gain his attention.

He felt the sneer forming on his lips as he stared down at her. "You think to dangle something shiny in front of me and watch me grasp for it like a child? What do you take me for?"

"I take you for a man who enjoys watching the suffering of others, for whatever reason." Her words were crisp. "But I also take you for a doctor and a scientist who is interested in the final solution. You may choose to dismiss my request and I will not fight you on it, but I do believe you will regret it if you let me slip through your fingers."

"Because you're so fascinating." The derision dripped from him.

"No, because I am an oddity and you can't quantify an oddity without fully exploring every aspect of it, Dr. Crane. This opportunity will aid both of us."

"And how will it aid you?"

Evangeline brushed past him to walk back to the dresser. At first, she peered at herself in the mirror, before her eyes raised to catch his in the reflective glass. "I haven't felt a single emotion in five years. During a drive by. I was shot in the head. The surgeons were able to remove most of the bullet, but a tiny portion lodged itself in my amygdala."

Jonathan could follow the logical course to its conclusion. "The center of emotions, linking long term memories to experience." Despite any reservations or annoyance he had, the woman was right that the scientist in him was curious. "That explains your condition. Tell me, do you still retain your long term memories?"

She nodded, her hands pressing against the waist-high dresser. "I remember, mostly, but any sense of connection to them has been lost to me. For instance, I can recall memories of time with my parents, and I fundamentally understand our relationship and what it should be, but I feel nothing towards them."

"Hmm. Why did the surgeons leave the fragment?"

"The surgery would have left me more brain damaged than I already am, most likely turning me into a vegetable. My parents were given the option and they chose to leave the piece inside." She turned to face him, leaning back against the dresser. "While they may have saved my life, I believe, based on our interactions since, they wish they hadn't."

Jonathan sat down on her bed, wishing he had a notepad to take this down. It had been a long time since he had a subject that intrigued him. Most were pathetic, crying out in fear the moment the toxin entered their lungs. But Evangeline was a fascinating case study and could be a crowning achievement for his work. He silently cursed her for being correct about his interest. Although the condition was medical rather than psychological, when it came to the brain, everything was about the pathways and he was a student of those pathways. The right spark, at the right time, could potentially work around the fragment, or even through the fragment, and have her screaming at his feet. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the challenge excited him and he decided to press forward.

"I assume that if the fragment is dislodged that you will have an aneurism," he said.

"The doctors have informed me that it will happen eventually. And since my lifespan has been shortened, I would like to explore the possibility of regaining some form of emotional response, even if they are negative sensations, before I die."

It seemed this woman understood the risks of her request, or rather, did not care about the consequences. "To be clear, you are permitting me to perform any experimental treatment on you, to test new variations of my drugs, and push you beyond the limits of anything you've experienced before."

A fake smile rose on her lips but her voice remained in that even monotone. "At this point, given what you know and who you are, I believe that even if I withdrew my request, you would continue the work. You have become invested and will want to see the end results."

For someone with no empathy, he was mildly surprised by her accurate appraisal of his thoughts and motives. "Very well, then. Once we begin, should you object to a course of treatment, I may be required to use force in restraining you, which could inadvertently dislodge your fragment. It would be a pity for you to die before we see if your mind is capable of pushing past its current limitations."

"It would," Evangeline agreed. "I will not resist so force will be unnecessary."

Jonathan inclined his head to her. "I will need a copy of any medical scans, records, medications, and past treatments performed on you since your accident."

Without so much as casting a glance in his direction, Evangeline walked out of the room. Left alone in her personal space, he took the time to examine the surroundings fully. Dust covered nearly every surface. Between the various rooms, he surmised that she rarely had guests over and took no effort to clean, except when it suited her needs. The flogger on the dresser drew his attention and he went to inspect it, noting it was clean and oiled and the edges well worn. It was used frequently and cared for, as such. The condition of the flogger triggered a thought and he rounded the bed to open the drawer of her nightstand. As he suspected, several devices and sexual toys lay within. He did not pick them up, instead letting his eyes take in their details, noting that again, each was clean and in good shape. A bottle of cleaner sat next to them in the drawer.

With the two pieces of evidence, it was clear that as a woman with no emotions, she could still feel physical stimulation and apparently did so with regularity. Next to the cleaning agent was a small tin that he took into his hands, opening it to his scrutiny. The earthy scent of marijuana hit his nose. The tin contained a decent amount, a tiny pipe resting next to the baggie. The plant could still affect her sensory input, creating an artificial state of mental relaxation. It would not, though, create any of the emotional effects. Closing the tin and replacing it, he sat back down on her bed, placing his mask beside him, and began to consider past case studies. He recalled a condition that produced several of the same symptoms that Evangeline had displayed but he could not remember its name or the exact diagnostic criteria. Jonathan needed his books, or at the very least, an internet connection to stir his memory.

Smoke drifted into the bedroom, his nose twisting up at the unpleasant odor. He followed her path out of the bedroom to the kitchen, another small room with only the essentials. On one side was the sink, fridge, and stove. A microwave was positioned over the stove, just below a set of six cabinets. On the other side was a two seater table, littered with mail and various other papers, a box sitting on top of it all. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Evangeline stood before a small bit of counter space, a cigarette in her hand, pouring a cup of coffee. Her eyes darted up to him as he lingered at the entrance. Then she pointed her cigarette towards the box, which was labeled "Medical."

"I wouldn't recommend leaving the apartment," she said, the high pitched lilt back in her voice. "The police presence in the Narrows is staggering after last night's riot. They are still hunting down the escapees and quelling the last of the riots."

Jonathan nodded his acceptance of her words. As much as the vile apartment made him feel claustrophobic and dirty, it was a small price to pay to avoid another stint at Arkham. He could cope with the borrowed clothing and the mess as long as the woman would continue to provide answers to his inquiries. Eventually, he would need to leave to gather supplies and find a new work space. But that could wait a couple of days until the police monitoring slowed. He watched as she opened a cabinet above her head, taking out a box of twinkies. The woman had an atrocious concept of breakfast.

"I need to start work now, but if you need anything, I'll be in my office. There is plenty of food, should you get hungry." She moved past him, but before she could disappear into the back bedroom, he cleared his throat. Turning back to him, her eyebrow raised in question.

"Where are your cleaning supplies?" He asked.

"Under the kitchen sink. Why?"

"Because I refuse to take a shower in your mildew infested tub."

She laughed. It almost sounded natural but now that Jonathan understood Evangeline's condition, it was unnecessary for his comfort. But she had become accustomed to living a lie in front of others and her reactions, though faked, were part of that cover. "A little OCD, are you? Feel free to clean whatever you like. Lord knows this place could use it."

She had essentially given him carte blanche to examine every aspect of her life and learn more about her. Never before had he had the chance to gain such insight into a subject. A refreshing turn of events, even if he would be doing her household chores. "Oh and there's spare clothing in my closet. The box labeled 'Brian' on the floor." With that, she pushed open the door to the only room he had yet to see, and closed it behind her.

Jonathan analyzed his mental to-do list. Scrub down the tub and shower so he could avoid any future health issues. Gather the clothing she mentioned and select pieces to wear for the next couple of days until he could buy more. Take a shower and rid himself of the lingering scent of Arkham. Watch the news to discover the final outcome of the previous evening and if unfavorable, contact the League to decide on the next course of action. When all that was accomplished, then he could turn his attention to the odd woman whose home he stood in.

The box of medical files, sitting on the table, tempted him to open it and begin the work. While she was different than the rest of his subjects, he felt a thrill at the thought of putting his scientific knowledge to the test and breaking past her emotional blockage. And a willing subject would make the process far easier than it had in the past. He ignored the book and glanced over the closed door with a smile. By the time he was through with her, Evangeline Natal would be nothing but a quivering mass of fear, screaming the word "Scarecrow."

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><p><strong>AN: It took me some time but I finally got around to writing the first chapter. I apologize, as updates to this story will take some time. I am far more focused on my Harley/Joker series. But once I finish that story, I will work on this one with more regularity. **

**Thank you so much for all the reviews of the strange Prologue. I hope you enjoyed chapter 1 and please do let me know what you think about the OC now that you've seen more of her. She will not be a Mary Sue, I promise you that. Cheers!**


	3. Hypothesis

Chapter Two: Hypothesis

Although both his body and clothing were clean, he couldn't shake the scent of old cigarette smoke clinging to his borrowed jeans and button down shirt. In the next few hours, his nose would grow accustomed to the smell, but long after, Jonathan would continue to feel disgusted by the material touching his body. A shame the bullet in the woman's head didn't cut off her addiction centers as well as her emotions. After tossing away some takeout cartons and pushing aside old clothing, he was able to access the TV that sat unused in the living room. It only received basic channels but that was all he needed to discover the stunning failure of the League of Shadows and their leader.

He was surprised to discover that Evangeline had a land line in addition to her cell phone. He used it to leave a message for his contact with the League, but somehow doubted he would receive a response. Months of planning down the drain because of the Batman. A shudder ran through Jonathan as he recalled the evil visage that terrorized him when they last faced off. Subjected to his own medicine. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but still, something about those eyes would continue to haunt his nightmares for years to come. And he found that he looked forward to his next encounter with the vigilante.

With business sorted, Jonathan searched her cabinets for something to eat that wasn't fat-filled and sugary and settled down on the couch with her medical files. It was surprising the amount of data she had kept on her condition. Everything from day one of her accident seemed to be in the file, a rarity for any patient to have access to their own information as such. The material provided a fascinating study into forced neurological conditions. Holding up the earliest scan of her brain to the light of the window, he saw the shadow that desensitized her emotions. It sat on the right side of her amygdala, a sharp edge pushing further in. That would be where the aneurism was forming.

A couple more of her scans revealed that the piece was moving, if only by a fraction of a millimeter, as if the brain itself was sucking it in further. When it eventually cleared the original impact site, the blood vessels would rupture and she would die. Finally, he examined at the most recent scan, comparing it to the first, nodding to himself. Evangeline didn't have long at all. The slow moving path of the tiny piece made him wonder if she had lost any other sensations, besides emotions, since the accident. But what really bothered him was that her entire range of emotion was lost because of this one piece even though the emotions, at least in the studies he read, crossed both the right and left amygdala. The studies could have been wrong but surely, she was not the only person in the world with a similar injury. No, that meant either Evangeline had damage to her left amygdala as well, or her brain processed emotion only through her right amygdala.

Whichever it was, Jonathan found it fascinating.

He sat there for several hours poring through her medical history. Around one o'clock, the sound of a door opening caught his attention. He craned his head to the side to glance at hallway but heard the sound of another door closing. Bathroom. Placing the files back down on the floor in front of him, he stood, waiting for her inevitable appearance. A few seconds later, he was greeted by her slight frame. The only change from when she first disappeared into her office was a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. Likely for reading. She seemed young to need glasses so soon.

With her hands on her hips, she gave him a fake smile. "I see you've been busy."

"Did the hallucinogen affect you at all? In the mists, last night?" he asked, having pondered that question.

Evangeline put her hands on her hips, tilting her head to consider his question. "I would like to say no, but I think I saw things that were out of my normal realm of thinking. It felt like I was myself and seeing the world as I normally do, but then I also felt like I was someone else. As if I was observing my actions from the outside, like a silent narrator." Her eyes gave him a questioning look, as if to ask him if he understood what she meant.

He nodded. "An out-of-body experience?"

"Yes."

"Interesting." An OBE was another form of hallucination. Several of his test subjects had reported similar effects while under the sway of his medicine. It was also a classic sign of depersonalization disorder. Perhaps she had a connection there between the medical and the psychological. "Has that experience ever happened before to you?"

"Not that I can recall."

Another theory thrown out. He looked around the room. "Do you have a spare pad of paper? I've been using a paper towel for my notes since it's near impossible to find anything in this pit."

She pointed down the hall. "In the office." And seeing the conversation was nearing its conclusion, she stepped into the kitchen. Jonathan strode past the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom to the now opened door of her office. The smoke was thick in the room, but as he suspected, his nose had grown accustomed to the scent, more registering in his senses visually as he looked around the new room.

Unlike the rest of her home, the office was spotless, barring the slight yellowing of the walls from smoke damage. The room was smaller than her bedroom, but without the mess of containers and clothing strewn about, it seemed bigger. There was one window pressed on the left side of the room, facing the same direction as all her other windows. Underneath it was a file cabinet with a basket of writing supplies on top. Directly across from his view was a large bookcase that seemed to encompass most of the wall. He walked over to it to get a feel for its contents, only to realize, most of the books were either college textbooks or the titles were in another language. To his right sat her desk. The light from the window created a small glare on her old monitor. Not a flat screen like most offices had these days.

There were dust particles in the air, perhaps ash, but not nearly as thick as in the rest of her home. She kept this room clean for a reason. Perhaps, her work mindset was dependent on a more sterile environment. The desk itself was quite large, almost like a table in design, hosting the computer on one side and multiple pieces of paper littering the other. Her coffee mug, cigarettes, and ashtray sat on the right corner. It was obvious from the scratch marks on the floor that she moved left and right along the surface of the desk to work on different projects. A lamp sat on the side where her papers were hosted, giving a clear view of her writing.

Peering down at her papers, he noted that several of them were in a foreign language, as was the text on her screen. Noting the odd, foreign symbols, he believed it may have been some Middle Eastern language. With a shake of his head, he continued his search. After a minute, he spotted a clean pad of paper on a small table next to the desk. It would do. He picked it up and turned to exit the room, stopping as Evangeline filled the door.

"Find it?" she asked.

He held up the pad. "Yes." Waving his hand around the room, he looked at her. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a translator for an international corporation."

"With business in the Middle East, it seems."

She nodded. "The script on the screen is Farsi, although I am also fluent in Modern Standard Arabic as well."

"An unusual language for a woman to study," Jonathan commented, opening the notepad to jot down her responses.

Moving past him, she sat down on the chair at her desk, turning to look at him. "I always had an ear for languages and the Pentagon is always looking for translators in the languages of our foreign enemies."

"But instead you're working for a corporation, not the government."

Evangeline gave him a small smile. "It pays better and I don't have to worry about my work being used to commit atrocities."

It was odd to hear her speak of her conviction, as such. Anyone with a condition such as hers would be at near sociopathic levels in terms of how they dealt with the horrors of the world. She would not feel the guilt, nor the emotional pain that went into signing someone's death warrant with her work. And yet, she still held on to values that she was likely raised with. He, himself, had shirked off those values years ago, as did many children. They found their own set of values. Which made Jonathan curious as to why she was so determined to play the moral role.

"If it pays better, why do you live in the Narrows?" he asked.

She picked up her pack of cigarettes, fishing a long stick out of the box. "Living here is cheap. I take the money I save by living in this hell hole and put it aside."

"For what?"

The fake version of herself melted away, and again, he saw the real Evangeline with her dead eyes. She peered up at him while lighting her cigarette, letting the smoke curl up her face she spoke. "When I die, my savings will go to my parents. They have had to make difficult choices and I understand that it will be hard for them to lose their only child. If I can ease their pain in some way, after I'm gone, then perhaps they can find some solace."

The logic was sound. "Do you see your parents often?"

She shook her head, a robotic gesture without her fake personality to bring it to life. "Rarely. Holidays require my presence but I try not to flaunt my condition before them, so it's easier to stay away. Out of sight, out of mind is the theory."

"I imagine that they still are concerned for you," Jonathan said, mentally berating himself for treating her like a common psychotherapy patient. Parental concern would mean nothing to her.

"Why subject them to more of their mistake?" Her chocolate eyes stared up at him. "Are you hungry?"

The change of subject was abrupt, though not intentional. Her mind had gone to another place and moved past the conversation. It was already clear that Evangeline would answer any of his questions regardless of how personal. She had no emotional ties to enforce embarrassment and thus had nothing to hide. It would make the job of examining the facets of her mind easier as most people hid behind defense mechanisms and half-truths. Though that evaluation would only take his research so far, unless it assisted in finding a way to spark other emotions inside of her. While he longed to see the fear in those dead eyes, a different emotional response, perhaps to some serotonin-based drug, could increase her neurotransmitters, and all the pathways of her brain could clear the way for a reaction. The advantage with her impending demise was that he could use higher doses without the worry of killing her. She was already a dead woman walking. And any knowledge gained by him would help his research in the future.

"I haven't eaten since the morning," he said.

Standing, she crooked a finger for him to follow and moved towards the kitchen. Leaning against the far wall, near the cluttered table, he observed as she opened the fridge, mostly full of take-out containers. She pulled a few of them out to look at and smell their contents. Her nose curled up in distaste and she opened the door under the sink to dump them in the nearly full garbage. After a moment of indecision, she dove her hand into the pile of papers on the table and grabbed a menu, seemingly at random, passing it to him.

"Let me know what you want," she said, puffing on her cigarette and letting the ashes fall onto the pile of dirty dishes.

He glanced down at the menu in his hand, a Chinese restaurant, and then back to her. "Are they even delivering today? After last night's riots?"

"It's Gotham," she said. " You know this city's motto: any way to make a buck."

As he glanced around her kitchen, he sneered, feeling the need to ask her the question that had been plaguing him since he woke up. "How can you live in this filth?"

A mechanical shrug. "I don't have guests over often, and when I do, I don't care what they think."

Her answer provided the opportunity for further inquiry. He moved the menu under the notepad and began to write. "But you do have guests? Friends?"

"I don't have any real friends. The only ones who visit are sexual partners." Open book. She was as frank as he believed she would be. "They serve their purpose and then leave, so I don't feel the need to clean just to make them feel welcomed."

Since she opened the door, he followed. "Have you had any repeat interactions with your partners? Or are they one night stands?" The answer would shed some further light on her personal relationships. To see if there was something psychological that he could work with. It was preferred to start with his expertise rather than delving into the obscurities of neurological science.

Her fake smile crossed her lips but her eyes and voice stayed cold. "I have an alternative lifestyle, doctor. As a result, it's necessary to stick to the same set of people. There are complications when someone new is introduced, if they aren't vetted properly. Problems have occurred in the past."

Alternative usually meant dominance and submission. He suspected as much with the care taken with her flogger, but having the same lovers was surprising. Someone with her condition would find it difficult to fake the necessary emotion involved in repeat sexual experiences with the same men or women. At the same time, though, she seemed adept at creating the illusion of life. Perhaps she had been able to maintain those relationships through her pretense. It was clear that she was not one to disclose her medical issues. But, as he understood it, in the alternative scene, trust was important. She was playing her role as she should. Several follow up questions formed in his mind.

"How frequently do you engage in sexual activity?"

"Depends on your definition of sexual activity." Evangeline wandered out the kitchen. Normally, he'd note that as an attempt to dodge the question, but she had been candid thus far. More likely, she had left to retrieve something. His suspicion was confirmed a minute later when she returned with the coffee mug from her office.

"Any form of sexual activity," he said, continuing his notations on the pad.

She smashed her cigarette out on the top dish before turning to pour herself another cup of coffee. "With partners, two to three times a week on average. With myself, usually every night."

"In regards to your partners, how many have you had relations with in the past month?"

"Four."

A small number for someone who might have been considered hypersexual, a sign of amygdala damage. Then again, with her lifestyle choice and her confession of daily masturbation, perhaps it was normal and she was simply venting her sexuality on her own. The toys in the bedroom pointed to that possibility. "And what length of time have you been having these relationships?"

"I assume you mean how long since we've started having sex and not how long each session lasts." He nodded in confirmation and she continued. "For note, I don't consider them relationships. And three of them I've known for years. Only one has started in the past six months."

Jonathan did not comment on her bit of defensiveness in regards to the use of the word 'relationship.' He continued writing, marking that section as potentially important. "Do you consider it a compulsion to masturbate on a nightly basis?"

"I find having an orgasm helps me sleep." She stirred sugar into her cup. "But I don't feel compelled to do it. Pot also helps me sleep. Sometimes I do both."

Casual about her drug use. And the need for assistance to sleep was interesting. The euphoric response after masturbation could lull a mind into relaxation and then sleep. "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

She nodded. "I'm not entirely sure if it's psychological but when I try to sleep, I have the sensation of something inside my head. I know, logically, that I can't feel the fragment but my brain," she paused for a moment, looking for the right word, "itches."

"And you feel that sexual activity or marijuana use distracts you from this sensation?" It was most definitely psychological. Many patients with severe injuries often reported phantom perceptions related to said injury.

"Yes. They do."

"Do you feel this itch inside your head at any other point during the day?" He continued to write, glancing up at her through his glasses every now and again.

"No. Only when I lie down." Evangeline sipped her coffee before placing it on the counter.

"As you said, you don't have guests over often. Do you spend the night at anyone else's home?"

Her eyes twitched a little, subtle but noticeable. "I leave as soon as we're finished."

Jonathan held back a smile. She wasn't one for cuddling, it seemed. Not entirely unexpected. "And do any of your partners stay the night here?"

She turned away from him, moving to pick through her mail absently. Her profile revealed nothing but he actions and previous eye movement did. A classic sign of discomfort, he noted. "No, Dr. Crane. You're the first person to ever sleep here."

Her answer was fascinating. "And why is that?"

"Because you needed help." More avoidance.

He did not anticipate her attempt to divert the conversation. She had been forthright until this point. Which meant there was something important to this line of inquiry. As soon as her head rose to look at him, he took off his glasses to stare directly into her eyes. "I'm referring to your partners."

Another turn to avert his gaze. She went back to the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a trash bag. The signs were obvious that she didn't want to talk about this. At the same time, there was no flush of embarrassment. It was different, deeper. As she began to sweep the papers and mail into the bag, her voice deadened even further. Jonathan found it creepy to listen to her crisp, even speech.

"They are there to satisfy my needs as well as their own. I don't want them to stay and each of them understands our arrangement."

A hypothesis began to form in his head as he thought of similar cases on a psychological scale. Evangeline was pretending to be human but did not bow to the customs of sexual interaction. Women had the tendency to ask their partners to stay the night because often times, they had an emotional connection, or at the very least, felt some responsibility to make their partner feel wanted, especially in an alternative scene where trust was the key factor. If Evangeline was pretending to be like everyone else, then why did she neglect this behavior? In the case of a one night stand or a brief affair, it was logical to leave after the act. But not with regular partners. Regardless of her denial, there was a bond to be formed and they would expect, at least every now and again, to sleep over. The entire ordeal went against her false persona. And it made him wonder.

Perhaps there was something that made her feel uncomfortable, in the recesses of her mind. A small spark to be ignited. Human closeness. There may indeed be a psychological factor to her condition. With her ease of pretend, he believed she would be able to form friendships and relationships. But there was a part of her that didn't want to fake that. All her relationships seemed to serve her needs, even her new found relationship with him. It spoke volumes. If she could feign emotions, surely she could simulate the necessary interpersonal connections needed to fit in. Instead, she shied away, likely justifying her response as "not wanting to be found out." Jonathan, now, had a different view to be tested.

Quietly, he scanned the menu while running through conceptual tests in his mind. As his medical license had been revoked by the state, he was no longer beholden to ethics. Not that he had ever really cared about them in the past. But through the use of drugs and prolonged exposure to himself, perhaps he could stimulate her emotional centers through instinctual human interactions and create new connections inside her head associated with relationships, especially in light of the fact that he would be staying with her. If those connections could be forged, he might be able to steer the fear foci around the bullet in her brain. The human mind was nothing but electrical connections, after all. When one breaks, all it takes is changing the lines to make it work again. And she had, hopefully, given him the key.

At the same time, he was uneasy about his idea. Not because of her, or ethics, but because he was not a man to create relationships such as this. The researcher inside of him recoiled from the idea, wanting him to maintain his cold, clinical aloofness and study from afar. He wasn't worried about forming a bond with her per se, as he wasn't the type to allow such things to happen, and with no emotions, Evangeline would be unable to discern his deception through common empathy. It was more the concern that he would have to get close to another human, in a way that was distasteful. Closer to someone than he had been with his wretched grandmother. It wasn't about physical closeness, no. He could handle that. But the facade was going to be difficult to swallow. And Evangeline, despite her fascinating condition, was just another disgusting human being. But, he was a scientist and science demanded his cooperation to fulfill his true desires.

He passed the menu back to her with a small smile. "I'll have the cashew chicken."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: My apologies for letting this fic go by the wayside. I was having trouble connecting to it but the amazing TC Stark gave me some encouragement to continue and I found my path. Those of you who are writers probably understand. Even if you have the story mapped out, as I do, sometimes it's just hard to write. **

**In any case, I welcome any feedback, questions, or comment. Thanks for reading!**


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